Chapter Eleven - 11. The Idiot
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Idiot
There was a sharp metallic clang, and one of Taylor’s arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me flat against his body.
I let out a shocked noise as my face landed in his chest and glanced up to see one of the cuffs had come undone.
The other hand was still pinned to the bed rail, and it must’ve been uncomfortable, but Taylor didn’t seem to care, because he let out a low growl, holding me tight as he jerked his hips up, and thrust into me hard, once, then over and over, until everything went hazy.
The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air. My cock rubbed up against Taylor’s abs, leaking all over him. As he fucked up into me, I thought I might blackout, spots of colour exploding like fireworks behind my eyelids. Taylor was panting, his body slick with perspiration.
“I love you like this,” he murmured, voice ragged.
I managed a whimper before I came, shooting all over his belly with white hot pleasure. Taylor shoved into me a final time, his balls pressing up against my ass, then went still as he unloaded. After letting out a throaty moan, he slumped against the bed, and I blinked blearily into his chest.
After what felt like an eternity, I sat up — I was able to, now that his arm had slackened around me — and inspected the cuff that had snapped open.
“Shit quality,” Taylor said.
“They wouldn’t have broken if you didn’t rattle them like a crazy person.”
He didn’t look remorseful. I hadn’t expected him to.
“Archie.”
“Yes?” I looked into his eyes, which were soft and hazy around the edges. It was probably the result of a mind-breaking orgasm, but something about the way he held my gaze made my stomach flip.
“Can you free me now?” He punctuated the question by jangling his other hand.
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” I quickly unlatched his other hand, then got off him, feeling a tinge of discomfort as his softening length slid out of me, leaving me feeling stretched and tender. He massaged his wrists, which had deep red marks.
“People are going to think I was kidnapped over the weekend,” he said.
“Or really kinky.” I lay down beside him. He quickly disposed of the condom in a bundle of tissues, then settled beside me, chest rising up and down as his breathing returned to normal.
“You have me for” — he reached for his phone and checked the time — “three more hours.”
“Hmm.” I turned on my side so I was facing him. “What were you saying before?”
He cocked his head.
“About doing something on the regular.” I was playing dumb.
“Right. I meant this. Fucking.” I didn’t respond immediately, and he added, “I don’t think we need the pretence of a weird competition slave thing —”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “the weird competition slave thing was your idea.”
“Yeah, but now that you’re addicted to my dick, we don’t need to do that anymore.”
“I am not addicted —”
“We could fuck. You clearly enjoy it. I enjoy it. It’s…” he shrugged. “Convenient.”
“Convenient,” I repeated. “Way to turn a boy’s head.”
“I’m just being practical,” he said. “Come on, you know that this was never —” he cut himself off.
“What?” I asked.
He gave me a sidelong look. “Do you even like guys?”
I stared at him. “Did I not just have your cock inside me —”
“I mean apart from sex. Like, would you ever date a guy?”
The question made me feel exposed, which was silly since I was still naked and we’d been literally having sex less than five minutes ago. “I haven’t thought about it. Would you?”
“I wouldn’t date anyone.”
“Oh,” I said, a little twinge in my gut. “Why—”
“I’m just not interested.” There was a finality in his tone that warned me off asking more questions. “All I’m suggesting is that we keep doing this. You don’t have to decide immediately, but it’s appealing, isn’t it? It’s a ten second walk to the other’s room.”
“So we’d do it in your bedroom too?” I asked, thinking of the one and only time I’d seen Taylor’s room. For someone so neat and tidy, it’d had been strangely messy and chaotic.
“No, because my bed’s too small.”
“And my bedsheets smell like me,” I said, repeating his earlier words.
“Yes.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said after a moment. Taylor held my gaze, and huffed, because we both knew I was full of shit. Even if I wouldn’t agree right now, I’d fold the next time I was horny. “Why me?” I asked. At his raised brow, I continued, “you could have anyone…”
“Haven’t you been listening to me? You’re convenient.”
I turned to stare at the ceiling. “That’s the only reason?”
“It’s not your winning personality.”
I elbowed him. “Shut up.”
He let out a long suffering sigh. “My body has a…reaction to you. I can’t control it. I wish I could,” he said, almost distantly.
“What’s so great about me?”
“Fishing for compliments is unbecoming, Archie.”
“Now you sound like my grandma.”
He looked at me. “You’re pretty.”
“What?” I was so outraged, I sat up. “I am not — I’m masculine. Like super masculine.” I flexed an arm to prove my point.
The Taylor I knew would’ve rolled his eyes or flexed his own muscles to make me feel small, but instead, he smiled softly. “Your eyes.”
“My — my eyes?” I had not expected that.
“That’s enough.” He yanked me down, and I landed closer to him than I’d been before, practically nestled in his arm. I was stunned into silence for a few moments before I remembered myself. To win in these sorts of situations, you had to be ruthless.
“As my slave, I compel you to tell me what you like about my eyes.”
“Safeword.”
“That’s not even a hard question!” I thumped him on the chest. He didn’t react.
“Fine,” I said loudly. “What else do you like about me?” Maybe it was narcissistic to ask, but I didn’t care. How many other opportunities would I have to ask Taylor these kinds of questions?
“Your waist.”
I blinked. “My waist?” I’d never paid attention to it. Like, ever. When I checked myself out in the gym mirrors, I exclusively looked at my upper body. “What’s so nice about it?”
“That’s enough.” Taylor tapped his phone screen. I don’t know what he was expecting; only a few minutes had passed since he’d last checked the time.
“It’s not midnight yet. You have to answer.”
“Safeword.”
I took the phone from him, and opened the camera app.
“What are you doing?” he asked, but I ignored him as I snapped a selfie, making a smug face, bare shoulders in the frame, Taylor’s arm under my head.
I passed the phone back to him. “You have to make this your lock screen background. When people ask you who that is, tell them it’s Archie Hayes, your idol, the person you admire most in the world and aspire to be.”
“You’re such a freak.” He unlocked his phone, went into his photo library, and set the selfie as his wallpaper.
He tilted his screen away from me as he tapped a few more buttons.
“This thing” — he gestured between us — “expires in a few hours, you know. I’ll be deleting the photo then.
” He dropped his phone face-down on the covers and gently eased me off his arm.
“I’m gonna clean up and get a wet towel. ”
“Okay. Thanks.” It was only after he padded out of the room did I realise just how warm it’d been, curled up next to his body.
Something on the bed buzzed and I picked up Taylor’s phone. The notification had been a university email about some survey, but what caught my attention was the fact his phone was still unlocked, his photo library displayed.
I never bothered to organise my own photos, but Taylor had several albums, all titled. School - English. School - History. School - Student Council. University Year 1 - Torts. University Year 1 - Foundations of Law. I tapped on that album and saw photos of lecture slides and worksheets.
There were more albums: Gym, Soccer, Admin.
I knew I shouldn’t have been looking, and was fully intending on putting the phone away, until I saw an album titled Idiot.
Now I had to check it out. It was probably selfies of Taylor. That’d be fitting.
It wasn’t full of selfies. Actually, it was the most random collection of photos possible.
There were pictures of our high school soccer team, dating back to when we were fifteen.
There was a group photo on the field, the shorter half of the team crouched on the grass, the taller players standing behind them, Taylor smiling his half-smile and me right beside him.
There was a shot of us at seventeen, holding the league championship trophy.
Then there were a bunch of photos from last year’s awards night.
A group of us, all in suits, sitting around a circular table covered in a white table cloth.
Then there was me on stage, winning the ‘most goals’ trophy, shaking hands with my coach and the president of the soccer association.
There was a shot of Taylor and I, standing side by side.
Me with my single trophy, grimacing. Taylor beside me, wearing a measured smile like he hadn’t expected anything else, holding the ‘best and fairest’ and the ‘best captain’ trophies.
There were also lots of photos taken at our high school. Taylor, me and the rest of the student council on stage during assembly. All of us at a meeting during lunch time. A few of me, frowning at an excel spreadsheet while I fixed the numbers.
Athletics day. Taylor coming first in the hundred metre sprint, and me coming second. Same for the two hundred metre sprint. And the four hundred. And the sixteen hundred. My legs had ached for a week after that.
The swimming carnival. Group photos of a bunch of us guys, all wearing navy swimming shorts, Taylor in the middle with heaps of first place ribbons, me on the very end, arms crossed.
Cross country. Debating (Taylor and I on opposing teams, of course).
Valedictory, once again, with both of us in suits.
Taylor looked like an Armani model. I looked like I was wearing my dad’s suit because I was (I’d only realised that evening that my usual suit, the one I’d worn to school formals, didn’t fit me anymore).
There was me on stage, winning the maths award.
A few group shots that included Taylor too, wearing his barely-there smirk as he held up English, History, and Politics awards.
Fucker, I thought now, even though I should’ve been past it.
I flicked through the photos. Some were of us at parties. There was one of me, hip propped against a wall as I tried to chat up some girl.
Then there were the photos from this year. Me taking out my groceries (mostly instant ramen) and putting them away in the pantry. I didn’t even realise Taylor had taken that. Weird.
There was one of me lying on the bathroom floor. Fucking hell, it must’ve been taken the night after I got drunk, playing that stupid Never Have I Ever game. Taylor was a total asshole, taking a photo of me like that. Maybe he intended to blackmail me with it.
There was another of me sleeping. This time I was on the couch, and I recognised the bottle of water and bucket beside me. It had been after that finance club party.
The most recent ones were from today. Me a few steps in front of the camera, bouncing my soccer ball in my hands.
A close up of that creepy bear keychain I’d given him.
A blurry shot of our dinner, my hands in the frame as I picked up a slice of pizza.
Lastly was the selfie I’d taken, just minutes earlier, smiling smugly as I used Taylor’s arm as a pillow.
I closed my eyes, then opened them again, squinting at the album, half expecting I’d hallucinated the whole thing. This didn’t make sense. The album was full of random photos, yes, but every single one had something to do with me.
What.
The.
Shit.
TO BE CONTINUED…